


Foreman

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:36:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The foreman is the head of construction, or the head of the Constructicons.  Either way, Prowl’s in charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt 1

_The foreman is the head of construction, or the head of the Constructicons. Either way, Prowl’s in charge._

**Script Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning to Audience:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron.  
 **Show Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Prompt: Prowl, Constructicons – “masturbation, gestalt voyeurism”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part One**

**[* * * * *]**

They were close, always so close. They hovered on the edges of his mind, a constant, testing _presence_ around the corona of his spark. Five bright, bold personalities folded around him, an oppressive enclosure formed by their sparks and minds. They didn’t overwhelm him, now that he was fully conscious and aware of what had been done to him, but their sparks burnt like lights in Cybertron’s starry perpetual night, a constant familiarity above him even on alien worlds. Their muted selves comforted him, an artificial sense of home surgically carved into his body and hacked into his thoughts.

They tried to exploit his subconscious acceptance of their presence. He tried to block out and uproot the subtle changes as he was made aware of them.

It was easier now that he knew the feel of them. He hadn’t, at first. The temporary bond formed during their initial combine into Devastator had hurt to sever, but he’d welcomed the jarring agony when Ironhide separated them. The pain of the snapped bond had buried any sense of the Constructicons in pain, and he’d welcomed the burning tips of unwanted gestalt links. He’d _wanted_ to forget, _wanted_ to hurt. He’d rather block out the gestalt bond than acknowledge it. Stars were distant, after all, despite always being overhead. Staying focused on the more important matters at hand had blotted them out.

A temporary solution, but one that had worked to keep his mind clear as Bumblebee led the Autobots out of the city. Prowl had concentrated on Starscream’s sudden powerplay and ignored the faint sense of activity on the fringes of his mind.

It’d been harder to ignore after the Constructicons tracked him down. He’d started to _feel_ them. Worse, they reached out to feel him in return. No matter how many times he rejected it, the severed gestalt bond sent strands into him, dabbing at the raw ends in his spark. Merge protocols pulled at the gestalt links, urging him to combine. The bond wasn’t complete. He hadn’t fully become the sixth and final part of the whole. The empty space in the gestalt opened wide enough to swallow him, and he had to resist falling in. 

Out in the wastelands, the Constructicons wouldn’t leave him alone. They pushed. They crowded. In their own blunt, awkward, _violent_ way, they courted. They were distant lights somehow managing to get in his optics every time he turned away, shining stubbornly brighter. They felt the void in the bond, too, and they were determined to plug him in to fill it. Scrapper’s death had left an empty socket within them, and Prowl had been remade into a perfect fit.

Knowing what he knew about them now, feeling how they functioned, their ardor made sense in retrospect. The Constructicons hadn’t originally wanted anyone to replace Scrapper. They hadn’t wanted a Decepticon, much less an Autobot, but Megatron had given the orders. Therefore they had obeyed. Survival among Decepticons often boiled down to obey or die. 

So the Constructicons had ripped open the scarred gestalt bond and exposed their greatest vulnerability to a total unknown. They’d welded an _enemy_ into the wound like a hostile medical patch. Even mind-controlled, they hadn’t known what to expect, and a faulty component could kill them in battle. Five mechs had wrapped Prowl’s body in their own, linked in, and hoped for the best. He would either shield the chink in their bond by joining them, or they’d die from his weakness.

Well, they hadn’t died. He was strong, stronger than Bombshell had realized and Megatron had planned for. The Constructicons had combined -- and they’d lost themselves in him. That’s how a gestalt bond and links worked. They were used to throwing themselves wholesale into joining together, and he hadn’t had the presence of mind to hold back. Their separate minds and bodies had combined into one.

Their minds and bodies become Tab A for his Slot B. He’d slid in with an ease that seemed obscene, thinking back on it. He tried not to, but the memories were mutual, bridges that he frantically wished would burn. He rejected the memories, rejected _them_ , but neither would leave him be. Six minds held those memories in common. The other five minds savored every remembered aspect of their first time combining. The memories of oiled parts gliding together pricked at the edges of his thoughts, split second flashes of sensor input reminding him of the slick coat of grease over parts he hadn’t even known he had until they slid home into hot ports. Those ports had closed around new, sensitive components that still twitched when mind and spark lost the fight to the gestaltmates dredging reminders up.

He blocked them out, but they were close, always so close. They refused to let him forget. He’d slid home as if he belonged in them, part of them, and they’d marveled at the fit. Their minds had folded around his mind as he formed Devastator’s head, and the Constructicons had accepted him as their sixth. 

He hadn’t reciprocated that acceptance. He still didn’t, but back during the first merge his thoughts had been far too warped by Bombshell’s hold to be in his right mind. Instead of rejection or cooperation, he’d seized the combine like the weapon it had felt like. His addled senses had fed skewed data to his battle processor, and he’d seized them, molded them to his specifications, his demands, and proceeded to use them as an extension of himself. 

Like the hilt of a superheated sword, his mental hands had stuck until he tore their melded minds apart. The consequences had lingered. A gaping wound had lain where the bond should have been built inside them. In the aftermath, the Constructicons reeled out of the merge lovestruck by his total dominion. Where he’d ignored the tattered bond, they’d treasured it. They’d held onto the pain as the mark his control left on their sparks and minds. 

Prowl hadn’t liked remembering the feel of them. It’d made his armor crawl and hands clench in memory of holding a perfect weapon. He’d seen into their minds just as they’d seen into his, but he’d recoiled while they’d invaded. They’d been fascinated by him; he’d been revolted. When Ironhide had woken him, he’d dropped the combine as if scalded, and he didn’t regret tearing himself free. Revulsion still filled him in equal measure to the active fascination bubbling at the borders of his mind. 

As long as they’d stayed away from him, he’d ignored the whispers at the edge of hearing. The gestalt bond had existed without having the strength to fully integrate, frayed threads grasping after missing components. Given enough time and distance, he’d hoped the bond would die. Disused parts eventually locked down, after all, and wounds capped. The faint voices and pulses of memory he’d suffered were a necessary price to pay for freedom. Call it battle damage. Eventually, the bright sparks nibbling at his own would fade away.

They’d known what he hoped for. He could tell. They’d chased him out into the wastelands because they’d felt him choking off his side. The Constructicons, on the other hand, had let it bloom to full strength inside them. They’d ripped open the scar, and their side of the bond wouldn’t scar over again, not so long as he was alive to reach for through it.

They’d lost one team leader. They’d chosen their new replacement and been dazzled by him during their first combine. No way would they let Prowl go without a fight.

Physically, they were all over him any time they could get away with it. Hiding behind coordinating the refugee movement had barely kept them from shadowing him _everywhere_. Sticking close to Bumblebee hadn’t helped much. They’d waited until duty inevitably drew him away, and then they’d swarmed him. 

They still did whenever they could. Hands passed through his EM field in shallow pulses of intent he narrowly dodged. Bodies crowded close, going for full contact that required him to actually push them aside. The gleaming pleasure that swiped through the periphery of his spark told him that’s what they intended. They wanted to touch him. They wanted to merge with him. They wanted him. 

Arcee had grinned and sparred with them, joking that his ‘harem’ needed to blow off steam since he wasn’t tending to them. There had been no way to respond to that, especially not as the whole unit had turned to gaze at him, greedy and wanting. Lust had billowed in a cloud around and through him. The bond had moaned, shivering against his spark as memory flashed and called. The links had yearned for connection in a needy, aching way that his body had no other parallel to draw but --

Prowl had coughed indignation loose where it stuck in his throat and retreated. It’d been the best option available. Arcee had laughed carelessly and kept the Constructicons busy a few minutes more while he’d escaped. It was a service he’d appreciated. 

He’d avoided the Constructicons with single-minded concentration after that, but they’d found him. They’d stayed close, always so close, stifling and welcoming at the same time. The gestalt bond made a prison, a room of five walls surrounding him, and the worst part had been feeling gratified by thir support when Chromedome and Ultra Magnus lost their minds. Both Autobots had let emotions get the better of them, something Prowl found an unpleasant surprise. The Constructicons were monsters, but at least they had perspective.

His perspective. “We understand,” Hook had said as Prowl glared after Ultra Magnus feeling betrayed. “We get you.”

They had. They did. Perhaps that was the most chilling part of what the former Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord had said to him. Prowl hadn’t known how lonely he’d been until five evil Decepticon murderers invaded his life, dug their way into the space around him, and made themselves at home. Chromedome and Ultra Magnus might have made him doubt himself if five voices hadn’t openly admired everything he said and did.

They’d seen his secrets, the reasons behind his actions, and adored him for what they’d seen. Not despite of it. _Because_ of it. They were Decepticons in love with his mind, which should have spelled out every reason he should doubt his own judgment right there, but yet, they _understood_ him. Even in the midst of the apocalypse, fighting for their lives while Shockwave plotted and Cybertron fell to pieces around them, they’d wanted him. 

The conflict lodged in his thoughts. It was a wedge into his mind, dividing him from the Autobots and levering him closer to them. He hated them so much for that. He had taken them from the Decepticons, but they wouldn’t join the Autobots any more than he’d join the Decepticons. They wanted to make him theirs, and they wanted to become his. 

For a Decepticon courtship, he’d realized in a dim way somewhere in the midst of that second terrible, desperate formation of Devastator, the Constructicons were being positively respectful. Sure, they were obnoxious glitches leaning heavily on his boundaries. In fact, they didn’t seem to recognize that he _had_ boundaries. Their hands reached for him the way their minds did during the second merge: hungry, tearing, needing. Their sparks consumed him, digested him, and took him to be part of them.

It was too much. It was more than he could take. The second merge went on longer, and Prowl was himself this time. They should have felt his hatred and distaste as their own. They should have felt how he struggled loose at the end. _It should have been enough._

Yet when they separated, they still didn’t have enough of him. He felt them now, syphonists jonesing for their next circuit booster, transformation addicts searching for a T-cog. They were _there_ on the borders of his mind, but right here and now, they were physically present. They crowded him, smiling and slapping each other on the back, pinning him in the middle where he couldn’t break free right away, and he turned in circles looking for a way out, an exit he couldn’t find. They were close, always so close, and closing in…but he picked up on their hesitation in the bond. 

Brute force wasn’t a viable strategy. They couldn’t force him to join them. He was strong, and he still wouldn’t accept their overtures. He’d yanked himself out of them the second Devastator came apart, leaving a fresh, seeping wound in their minds and bodies. His end of the gestalt bond stayed ragged, rejecting the severed strands from their ends and refusing to let the bond knit together. Their sparks and minds waited to be allowed in, but everything inside him recoiled from the idea. 

That left convincing him in other ways. Call it courtship, label it persuasion. Their hands ran over him, their bodies pressed to him, and the energy they doused him in reeked of their desire, their want, and their lust. They loved him, reveled in his thoughts and craved his touch. They laid their adulation before his fingertips, a weapon at the ready, and mainlined their devotion directly into his spark. It pulled at his systems deeper than raw arousal, and they fed it into him exactly how they felt it. 

_This_ was how they desired him. _This_ was how they saw him, inside and out. They knew Prowl how no one else possibly could, deeper and more loyal for the depth. Inside a combiner team there were no abandonments at crucial moments, no trust issues, no lies told through omission. The Constructicons would never betray him. 

The emotional pull of an incomplete gestalt bond ached for him to believe them. The gestalt links tingled at the tips, urging him to join to compatible bodies. It was a physical itch along the foreign circuitry of the gestalt links, and a seduction swirling around his spark where the Constructicons coaxed and cajoled. Their minds whispered to him, always there, always so close:

_Give in._ They wanted him.

_Let us in._ They needed him.

_Be one of us._ Surrender. They would accept him, all of him, and be his sword if he would be their guiding hand.

Stuck in the center of the group, Prowl made a small, static-laden noise as he looked frantically for an escape from the bond entrenched in him, now. No, no he had to separate! He had to kill it, he didn’t want this! He couldn’t be absorbed into this group of cruel, vile Decepticons, the worst of the worst. He couldn’t _do_ this, couldn’t accept it much less embrace it, but a green-and-purple mech bent over him. A hand wrapped around his throat, palm compressing his air filter and thumb pushing his head back, and a mouth descended hot on his.

Hot, and somehow searching. The kiss looked for something, deep and intense as it searched in the sweep of a tongue between his lips and clashing of their teeth. Seeking a momentary weakness, perhaps. Anything that would grant a minute of indulgence to fill the empty place where Devastator had separated. They were still on the battlefield, victory only just accomplished, but the Constructicons already needed him. They needed him to stay, they needed him to be part of them, they needed him to _want them back_.

He clenched his teeth as scorching heat met heat, air blasting from combat-heated internal systems, but their bodies traded it back and forth until they hummed in unison. The Constructicon kissing him tasted like nothing, like part of himself, and Prowl didn’t know where he ended and the other began. He shut off his optics and threw himself into the feeling as if he could find what this piece of him looked for if they met halfway. They kissed as if they could become one again. 

The other four Constructicons drew tighter around them, armor grating against armor, and the whole unit shuddered in unison as chestplates loosened, gestalt links lit up in anticipation of combining. It hurt to be separate. The bond sang a six part harmony, one note gradually falling out of tune as the tender space between them stretched. The Constructicons pushed closer, their sparks straining in urgent need, but the tentative connection _snapped_. 

Prowl ripped his spark free, tearing the last connection loose, but he was only a mech. Rejection and hate drowned in desire as potent as any engex ever distilled. His spark shrank back even as his mouth opened for the tongue mapping him out in a slick invasion of pressure and heat. A raging inferno of _need want hunger_ whipped through the severed bond, Devastator clawing after his missing component, a storm of obsession easily mistaken for love. The Constructicons lashed it at the single spark they craved above all, but Prowl blocked them. He knew the feel of them now, tasted their difference on his tongue. They _would_ respect his boundaries, frag them all!

The Constructicons flinched back, bewildered, even angered, but they reluctantly accepted that he’d put his foot down. They couldn’t force him, not without Bombshell, and to mind-control Prowl now would let the Insecticon control them all. 

His spark couldn’t be touched through the blocked bond, so they redoubled their attention to what they _could_ touch. Hands squeezed his tires and roughly fondled his bumper. Fingers delicately traced around his headlights, gentle on the cracks but greedy for contact. Prowl gasped, back arching as a hand cupped under his chin and tipped it even further back, breaking the liplock so the Constructicon bending over him from behind could take a turn. Someone nuzzled his midrift, breathing between the armor into vulnerable components. Someone else licked his Autobot insignia in quick flicks that made him squirm, startled at how sensitive he was under the benign assault. 

His fans had been spinning from combat just minutes earlier, but now roared in his audios for completely different reasons. Prowl bit at the mouth moving over his own and only managed to shift their lips together in a harsh slide that sent glitters of teasing pleasure down his neck. The Constructicon nipped right back, catching his bottom lip for a second before letting it slowly drag out from between rough teeth, sucking hard the whole while. Prowl panted and tried not to groan.

No.

“No,” he rasped, pushing feebly at the hands all over him. They were close. Always, always so close. It was too much, abrasion on tender welds still too sensitive to take it. They swarmed him physically, too close and too -- too soon. The physical connection channeled too much of them into him, proximity making fragile repairs to the gestalt bond he wanted to rip out. He couldn’t handle the tentative flutters in the back of his mind, against his spark. They were trying to force something that he couldn’t deal with, that he wouldn’t let happen. 

Not yet. 

Maybe never. 

No, a definite no, although his determination wobbled a little. They were being considerate for Decepticons, courting him nice and gentle, but he was an Autobot. They wanted him; he didn’t want him.

One last kiss, hot and open-mouthed, the larger mech’s lips claiming his own and plunging a long tongue into his smaller mouth, and then the Constructicons backed off. Prowl’s protest against the invasion became a moan into the tangle of tongues and electric transmission of fields ( _please be ours as we are yours_ ), and he slumped when released. The air abruptly felt cooler, almost cold in his empty mouth. Without hands all over his plating, his body felt abandoned. 

As he’d wanted. Because he didn’t want them. He didn’t.

His throat worked in a pained swallow, and they were close, so very close, always so very close. Possessive of his talents, accepting of his flaws, and lovestruck in a way only a combiner team could be while watching and admiring their sixth member. They were there, and they were waiting.

It was getting harder to push them away.

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**Script Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning to Audience:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Show Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Prompt: Prowl, Constructicons – “masturbation, gestalt voyeurism”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Two**

**[* * * * *]**

They were close, so close it was frustrating, _teasing_ how close they were.

They were doing it on purpose. He knew it, and they knew that he knew it, and he knew that they knew he knew it. So they drew it out deliberately, keeping themselves on the edge and so close that their sparks trilled pleasure around the periphery of his own in an extremely distracting way. Mischief and a wanton, yearning desire whispered in the corners of his mind, inviting and tempting him. They were close, and they wanted to bring him with them when they finally tipped over the edge.

Prowl gave in. 

One moment of weakness could be permitted. One time, for the purpose of taking care of this once and for all, he could afford to rest his forearm against a wall, lean his forehelm against his arm, and focus inward. The rubble of Iacon hid him from any watchers. The uneasy truce with the remnants of the Decepticons, the returning Autobots, and the mechs who’d ripped off the emblems of either faction was in effect. Theoretically, it was safe here.

Maybe he should resist, but he kept the gestalt bond squeezed shut with a tight grip on his own spark. It hurt. Pleasure drew sweet and heady under the steady pain, throbbing in slow ebbs and flows in leisurely merges as the Constructicons interfaced in long, slow sessions, and Prowl had to. Just…they were so close. This once, he had to succumb to temptation.

He dimmed his optics and turned his face into the armor of his forearm, hiding how his face screwed up into what he wished was a disgusted grimace but wasn’t. The shallow sensations transmitted by the accursed gestalt bond couldn’t be completely blocked out, not if he wanted to keep track of the dangerous group of Decepticons attached to him. He _had_ do. He certainly didn’t _want_ to allow the bond open that much, but he had to. They were a rogue combiner team already splintered off from the main group of Decepticons led by Soundwave. They hadn’t joined Starscream, and they refused to join the Autobots. They’d put themselves under his command, whether he wanted the responsibility or not, and he couldn’t very well let them go off to do whatever they wanted in the remains of Iacon. 

Arcee had given him a knowing look when the Constructicons wandered off into the wreckage of the city. He’d wished he could send her after them, but his personal aversion to the mechs didn’t allow for avoidance. He could track them, and therefore he would. Arcee’s talents were useful elsewhere, especially since the Autobots who’d heard her confession kept sharp optics on what orders he gave her, now. They thought he’d use her as assassin again. 

Of course, those same optics had seen him become Devastator’s head. They also watched him warily for signs that the Constructicons were influencing him.

They weren’t. They were there, always there, but Prowl could block them out when he wasn’t actively trying to keep tabs on them. Regardless of their wishes on the subject, he was not one of nor would he ever be a Constructicon like them. 

They couldn’t force him. They knew they couldn’t force him, for all that they kept crowding and pushing and grabbing for him. Inside their minds and sparks, they took every opportunity to ease the gestalt bond a fraction deeper while they distracted him with touches and words. They recoiled, stung, at the fierce pulse of rejection he seared them with, but the lesson never lasted. They kept trying. They kept seducing him, coaxing him. Courting him. Adoring him for his mind and reaching for his body. 

_Want_ bled off their EM fields the second danger passed, and jealousy filled their faces the moment he spoke with someone outside the boundaries of work. There was a lot of work to be done, but a defensive tinge flooded the dammed-up gestalt bond any time conversation with other Autobots shifted to anything other than business. Whenever they sampled the cold calculation of his plans, approval dissipated the jealousy. Their interest in his ideas leaked through. It disturbed him how they could tell the difference between genuine concern versus when he feigned it to further the peace.

This disturbed him more. They courted and persuaded, but they had also started doing this. _This_ , Primus damn them to the smelters! Did they think him so easily distracted? So simple that some pleasure would tempt him to their sides?

His hand clenched into a tension-shaking fist against the wall, and he bared his teeth as the aftertaste of something familiar swept over someone else’s taste receptors. His tongue moved against a flirting pressure that wasn’t there, and his lips relaxed momentarily to meet --

No. No, he wasn’t there, this wasn’t him. Prowl brought his free hand up to press to his chest, trying to ground himself in the here and now, but the Constructicons were so, so close. Their sparks strobed around his own, pulsing stars filling the darkness with light, and his attempt to squeeze the bond fully shut fumbled. The floodgates opened.

His mouth opened against nothing, his fingers clawing into his chest armor as if to rip out the bond, but the Constructicons were delighted to have him among them suddenly. Their pleasure became his, and they pushed for more to give him. Hook slid against Bonecrusher; clever fingers worked under Mixmaster’s hood; Scavenger’s hands cupped the back of Long Haul’s neck. And everywhere, everywhere was the uncomplicated joy that he’d joined them, enjoyment for being together. Minds muddled and saturated by the lazy, cloying rise of bodily pleasure, the Constructicons pressed into Prowl’s mind and brushed his spark. Infuriatingly gentle, impossibly so for Decepticons, but they needed, they _needed_ him to accept them, to take them in as they’d taken him. They wanted him there in their midst, and they drew him into the gestalt bond as deep as he’d let them. No further, no more, but they offered their all. 

Against the wall, Prowl choked out a cry like denial, but his hand slipped down to find a panel. His chest panels didn’t open up, but his fingers found their way in. An electric surge abruptly burned to meet the echoes through the bond.

Shock met it. Startlement. An abrupt tidal wave of hungry arousal over burgeoning alarm. What was he doing? Was he -- no, wait, he couldn’t do that! That was really, really hot, and no no no, they were supposed to be there, no, stop, please -- !

They hadn’t expected him to hold his own party. They’d been going all-out to tempt him to join them, not do his own thing. Their game had backfired spectacularly. They were the ones on the outside looking in, except they were the ones desperately craving what they couldn’t have. He played by his own terms. There was no temptation. They already needed what he dangled just out of reach.

Prowl’s commlink lit up with multiple pings asking his location, seeking him. He muted it and pushed his fingers in deeper, fingertips reaching tender wires that vibrated as his engine accelerated hard. His fans whirred, temperature skyrocketing. While he stroked, optics off and attention totally on the slow pressure of his own touch, his body twisted under the onslaught of sizzling charge. He dug his forehelm into the wall and sucked in air, panting it back out in short bursts. A light pinch to the right relay cluster stabbed pleasure straight into his spark. He made sure to luxuriate in the backwash of energy as his engine stuttered and roared, shifting gear.

He was close. He was close and taking the time to linger on the edge, but the Constructicons were far away. They clamored at the edges of his mind, the borders of his spark, but the bond was weak at this distance. It was weak when he held himself apart, choking it nearly closed so that they couldn’t tumble over the edge when he overloaded, but open enough that they felt every warm slide of fingers near his spark, every degree his temperature climbed. The bond was weak, and he was strong. Trying to manipulate him through it had been…unwise.

They stayed close, always so close. Always there, and always pressuring him. Prowl was learning how to use that against them. 

He smiled grimly into the wall and arched back, vents hitching as perfect pressure dragged down the outside of his spark chamber. It transmitted clean and clear. His smile became something predatory as knees that didn’t belong to him buckled.

By the time they found him, he’d finished. He’d taken his time, but the pleasure hadn’t been easy to track. It’d left them leaning against each other more often than not. When they finally arrived, Prowl had already resumed stalking through Iacon’s ruins. He looked as distant and composed as always. He gave the disheveled, softly steaming team standing in the middle of the street a contemptuous glance before moving on.

They gaped after him.

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**Script Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning to Audience:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Show Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Prompt: Prowl, Constructicons – Donuts

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Three**

**[* * * * *]**

“This will work.” Mixmaster had all the confidence in the world.

Which was fortunate, because Hook didn’t have confidence in anyone but himself. Well, maybe Prowl. “This is ridiculous!”

“This will work,” Mixmaster repeated, concentrating on his work. It had taken a combination of intimidation, persuasion, and a few discreet break-ins to get him the supplies he needed, but it’d be worth it. It would work, and Prowl would be _so impressed_. 

Who else could do this? No one, that’s who. He was the only one who could possibly do this. Even if anyone else had the skill, he was definitely the only one with the supplies to do it, since everything he needed had been procured by four gestaltmates on a mission. Any place even suspected of having what he needed had been raided.

It’d been easy to get in and out of most targets. Blurr’s bar was still a wreck. Scavenger had swiped most of the energon and equipment on Mixmaster’s list when the speedster had his back turned. Of course, getting Blurr to turn his back had taken picking a fight with the Dinobots again, and thus the Constructicons had been banished from onboard Metroplex. They were currently dwelling in disgrace on the outskirts of Iacon. It’d turned out for the best, as stealing from Wheeljack’s lab was easier that way. 

Their favorite Autobot would be all colors of pissed off if he found out they’d messed around in Wheeljack’s stuff, however. Doubly so if he knew why. The plan was to impress him to the point he didn’t ask where they’d gotten their supplies.

“This is never gonna work,” Long Haul predicted glumly. He was still nursing some scorched plating from Snarl. His outlook on life was correspondingly grim.

Mixmaster glared at him from the corner of his optic but didn’t turn from working. “Stop saying that. This’ll work fine. Better than fine. You saw it, I saw it, frag,” he snorted air out his vents and tossed his head in Hook’s direction, “even **he** saw it. Prowl likes things like this. He just won’t relax enough to indulge.”

“That, and they ain’t exactly been available. War, y’know.” Bonecrusher leaned over Mixmaster’s shoulder and swiped a finger through the bowl of pale pink gel on the workbench.

The chemist had worked on it for the last fifteen minutes and had set it down beside the separate bowls of dark green and delicate lavender frosting he’d already finished whipping. Three different minerals for flavor, three oils for the colors, and three different metals for the density and texture. One metal was flaked, another ground extremely fine, and the third crumbled into a sandy grit. It’d taken repeated experimentation, but Mixmaster thought he’d gotten the combination right this time. Pride for that suffused the gestalt bond. He’d bet there wasn’t a scientist left on Cybertron who could take a passing memory of a treat, backwards engineer the recipe, and have the skill to pull it off. Not many mechs could distill decent engex any more, much less make frivolous treats. Solid energon chips had been one of Blurr’s featured specialties simply because making the blasted things took time and talent the war had killed off.

And then there was Mixmaster, who’d dredged up a hazy impression of Prowl’s most hidden desire and decided he _would_ make them. Supplies and equipment were mere speedbumps on the road to slow him down. No lack of previous experience in energon formulation could stop him. He was a chemist. Surely recipes couldn’t be that different.

Now he irritably batted Bonecrusher’s hand away because he was down to his last vial of flavoring. It turned out that recipes weren’t that different than chemical formulas, but tweaking the taste to match someone else’s memories of chemical receptor levels had been…trying. His temper couldn’t take much more of this.

Bonecrusher shared his fingerful of frosting among the others, and a pleasant hum purred along the gestalt bond. Huh. Yeah, that brought back old memories.

Also a newer memory, although it was also old. Just new to the Constructicons. Their optics and visors went blank as they compared the current taste to the remembered one.

“Too gritty.”

“It’s supposed to be gritty. The pink is for decoration and texture, not flavor.”

“The others are firmer.”

“That’s because they’re powders in suspension. As soon as they cooled and I stopped agitating them, they set.”

“So this will run?”

“No. If I measured it right, this one will bond with the other two.”

“Can I try?”

“How about you try shutting the frag up and letting me work?”

They shut the frag up and let him work. 

The recipe called for heat-tempering, so while the frosting cooled, Mixmaster shoved the molds he’d prepared earlier into the oven. Time to discover if he or Hook were right -- would it work, or would it fail?

Preheated, the oven immediately baked the molds red-hot. Tempering energon took carefully applied but high heat, especially tempering energon mixed with metals and minerals of various melting points. Direct heat would cause a fire and probably an explosion, but if the correct temperatures weren’t reached, the energon wouldn’t set because none of the additives would integrate. Mixmaster’s first and third attempts at baking had poured out of the mold, still liquid inside. The second attempt had resulted in hard little bricks, the energon’s energy burnt out to leave behind an inedible crust of slag caked into the molds.

The fourth time, he’d gotten the temperature and timing right, but he hadn’t realized it was necessary to grease the molds. The results had been tasty but pried out of the molds in broken pieces. 

This time, everything seemed promising. The heat created reactions as the additives melted or evaporated, sending bubbles up through the energon. Trapped by a surface skin baked on by the heating coils, the gas expanded. Mixmaster stood stock still, watching in total focus as the mixture puffed up in the molds. A messy explosion could happen at any moment if he’d missed one ingredient, or even if the ingredients were contaminated somehow, or if the heating coils glitched and didn’t bake the surface of the mixture into a thick enough skin before the reactions started. Anxiety zinged through the bond as he stared intently. 

Far and distant, suspicion prickled in response. Just what were the Constructicons up to? Prowl had been feeling flashes of excitement, frustration, and anxiety for the past four days. Except for the brawl with the Dinobots, he had no idea what was causing any of it. What was going on? What were they up to? He cautiously opened up his end of the gestalt bond and probed through it like a mech with a stick poking a spark-eater. Answer him. _Hello? Hey. Hey, answer._

The Constructicons ignored him for once. They were busy watching Mixmaster finally succeed. Inside the makeshift oven, the mixture set, bubbles baked in, and the chemist took the molds out right on time. He sighed in relief when a quick temperature scan came back in the right zone. What had been a liquid paste tipped out of the molds in soft, slightly squishy rings and disks, firm instead of mushy. Mixmaster immediately broke one apart and shared it among his team, who started out wary and ended up silently savoring what none of them had had since the beginning of the war. Before that, even. These hadn’t been commonly available where they’d worked. Excess refined energon for confectionary formulation hadn’t been something the working class got ahold of often, if at all. 

Suddenly in a much better mood, Hook took over. He had the hands for detail work, although he didn’t have much of an optic for decorating. It would have to suffice. The things just had to be pretty, not perfect. 

Green and lavender frosting smoothed over each and every one of the treats, applied by a palette knife as Hook balanced the treats on his fingers. He scrutinized them from every angle before grunting approval and passing them on. Scavenger got them next, dabbling with the pink frosting. He swirled and streaked and speckled in whimsical patterns. Orange outlined the pink as it touched green and lavender, heat sizzling, but the reaction finished in a few seconds. 

When Hook and Scavenger finished with the last one, Long Haul reverently laid it in the clear-topped box with the others. The Constructicons stood back and looked at what they had made, triumphant and relieved. It looked great.

By now, Prowl was pulsing signals of alarm and immense suspicion through the bond. Inquiries hammered at them nonstop. What were they doing? What had they done? Where were they? He was coming for them, and he wanted a full report on what trouble they had been causing, or so help him -- !

Satisfaction purred back at him. Yes. Come find them. They had been bad, bad Constructicons. They needed close supervision. Come supervise them, Prowl, if he dared.

A trickle of apprehension leaked from the other side of the bond. That was not reassuring in the least. 

Bonecrusher tied a string to the corner of the box, and then they hid, snickering quietly and almost buzzing with anticipation. Time to go fishing.

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt. 4

**Script Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning to Audience:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to sex. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Show Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity Stage:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Theatre Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Acting Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Prompt: Prowl, Constructicons – Donuts

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Four**

**[* * * * *]**

He gave the box a deadpan stare, something dull and resigned in his optics. This was it. He’d hit absolute bottom. The absurdity had broken his sanity. Goodbye, reality.

The box jiggled enticingly. Attempting to understand a mindset that allowed for such stupidity gave him a processor ache. He offlined his optics and brought one hand up to massage at his chevron. "Bonecrusher, just...stop. Stop. I can see you pulling the string."

"You know you want it."

"I’m not a turbofox."

"You wa~ant it."

His optics lit briefly. The box danced. He shut them off again, but he couldn’t stop thinking. Memory squeezed his tanks, and a swallow worked his throat without his permission. Chemical receptors along his tongue and the roof of his mouth primed for use despite his wishes. He had to manually shut them off one by one, opening program functions and stopping them. 

Yet still the box was there when his optics lit. The string on the corner tugged. "Stop that." He offlined his optics, unwilling to watch the box, and pinched his nasal ridge right below his chevron. Primus give him patience.

_rustle rustle_

"I can hear you. Do not touch me, or I will break your hand." Fair warning, and they knew to take him at his word. He’d inflicted a dozen such small injuries on the Constructicons since they’d begun following him around.

The rustling didn’t stop, however. It got louder, in fact, as footsteps approached. His scanners indicated the unit had him surrounded. They did that whenever possible, and it disturbed him that the crowding had ceased alarming him. The inactive gestalt links within him attempted to ping their counterparts. Even locked down, proximity triggered them. It was a strange comfort, and he should dig out whatever betraying circuit still recognized the Constructicons as _self_ out of his body before it got him killed. He should be justifiably wary that he was surrounded. He shouldn’t be merely exasperated, and he definitely shouldn’t wonder what that wonderful _smell_ was --

Prowl's optics lit, and he stared in despair at the green hand holding a lavender-frosted treat in front of his face. "One bite," the Constructicon coaxed. "Please? It would make us very happy."

"I am not concerned with your happiness." He winced in dread the second he opened his mouth, but the mech didn't push the thing between his lips. Somehow, the patience surrounding him made this harder to resist. They were trying their best to be respectful, even if it wasn't their version of respect. In a very backward, clumsy way, they were being considerate and caring. They’d done this all for him.

Without asking whether or not he wanted it, but why bother asking when they already knew the answer? He did want it. Just not from them. And that was the part they cheerfully refused to acknowledge.

A hand reached over his shoulder to swipe lavender frosting off the side of the confection and bring it slowly toward his mouth. "Prowl, just try it."

His head drew back as slowly as the finger approached. "I would rather not."

"It's not poisoned," someone promised, almost at a whisper.

"Try it," the Constructicon in front of him all but pleaded.

He told himself he stopped retreating because he'd drawn his helm back as far as his neck would allow. Constructicons surrounded him, hemmed him in, and he couldn't evade. His hands clenched into shaking fists, and he’d have bitten his lip if he had less control.

They did as he’d ordered. They didn’t touch him. The finger carefully, tenderly dragged a moist pressure along the crease of his lips, light as a breeze, metal never touching metal, and then it withdrew. Nothing more. 

A flicker of resentment passed through his spark for that, although he wasn’t entirely certain why. A lost opportunity to lash out, perhaps -- or succumb.

Feeling suddenly annoyed by the silly waste of time, he growled his engine at the unit until they backed off a step. Once they withdrew a bit, he impatiently licked at the frosting smeared over his lips. The brisk gesture didn’t give away how the burst of flavor overwhelmed him for a split second. How by the Pious Pools had they gotten the taste just right? The texture swept across his mouth as his tongue rubbed the grit against chemical receptors, pressure sensors titillated by silky-fine gel as the larger particles dissolved, flooding his senses.

He locked his joints and let his tongue dart at the last bit of the mess, cleaning it away. Because he preferred tidiness. Yes.

“That’s it,” one of them said, a relieved moan too intimate for watching him merely lick his lips.

The treat still in front of his face wiggled, tempting and hopeful. “Just one bite? Call it a quality control check. To test if it passes your standards.”

Prowl bit his lip.

by Shibara

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to rape. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Nothing new here, just cleaning up the fic a bit. Prompt: Prowl, Constructicons – “Finger-lickin’ good”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Five**

**[* * * * *]**

There were no more donuts.

Prowl frowned into the empty box, mind flashing through his options. The Constructicons had traded the donuts for labor through careful bargaining, if one could call their approach to bargaining anything but juvenile. They had badgered him to agree via nagging, whining, coaxing, and, last but most effective, sitting on the ground pouting. They’d been kicked off Metroplex for picking fights a couple weeks ago, fortunately, or he had a sinking certainty that they’d have locked themselves in a washrack. 

As it was, they’d followed him around, sat on the ground surrounding him, and sulked. Appearing mature was not a concern. Their behavioral validation happened internally; anyone else’s opinion meant less than nothing to the team. As their (reluctant) sixth, his opinion of them mattered, but they were an infernally clever bunch of glitches. They knew that he knew they only did it because he couldn’t stand the way _they_ made _him_ look bad by association.

So they’d pouted and sulked and complained, refusing to leave him alone or help rebuild the city. They’d demanded he eat their box of treats in return for either action.

He could have tolerated the nuisances being underfoot constantly. Having such valuable resources refusing to aid in cleaning up Iacon was unacceptable, however. It was a waste. 

He’d argued that Cybertron owed the metrotitan, and thus the Constructicons should work on Metroplex. They’d stood their ground. Well, sat on it. They’d sat there on the ground, all but leaning against his legs while Long Haul snoozed, Scavenger drew pictures in the rust, and none of them lifted a finger to help in Iacon until he’d consented to eat their ridiculous misuse of time and effort.

Donuts. Of course they’d made donuts. It couldn’t have been anything else. It had to be something incredibly personalized, something with connotations he didn’t like thinking about and an element of nostalgia he couldn’t blot out. They meant it as a gift. He understood it for a warning.

They’d been in his head. They’d pulled out a frivolous tidbit of his past to focus on, but he didn’t know if he’d successfully locked them out of his operation memory files. It worried him that he didn’t know how deeply they’d delved. They seemed more interested in him as a person than in his secure archives, but he couldn’t be sure. That worried him.

They’d found out far too much about the Autobots and his plans during the first merge. The first time, he hadn’t been able to fight back, but they hadn’t actively been searching for anything. The second time, the Constructicons had surged into him already grasping for details, and he’d fought them the whole way. He hadn’t dared trust that they were more interested in him as their sixth member than as a chance to hack an Autobot officer. Keeping them out of his memories didn’t work during a merge, but he’d tried distracting them with personal information. His subconscious had struggled to throw anything and everything that wasn’t classified at them during the second merge. The back of Devastator’s mind had been a chaotic flurry of old, unimportant memories as the Constructicons dug into him.

He’d meant it as a distraction, but they’d snapped up the information eagerly. Yes, give them more. Yes, personal memories, clues to who he’d been and was. He recoiled from them, but they wanted him. They wanted him so badly it ached at the ends of the gestalt links and throbbed over the bond. 

Prowl pushed the spark-deep hurt aside whenever he could. Either the Constructicons couldn’t do the same, or they wouldn’t. Instead of seeking to alleviate the strained connection through distance, they kept trying to get _closer_. It was extremely annoying. 

Then they pulled stunts like making donuts, and Prowl skipped annoyance to plunge straight into infuriated. 

Going through the experimentation and research necessary to make a confection Cybertron hadn’t seen since the Neutrals fled could be considered a gallant gesture. Maybe. If they hadn’t paged through his _head_ to perfect the taste. If they hadn’t held their labor hostage until they coerced him into eating the things. If he wasn’t alarmingly affected by the blasted treat.

This was manipulation, plain and simple.

It worked, too. One at a time, sullen and glaring, he’d done what they wanted. Once every project, he ate a single donut in a few neat bites. He refused to linger over the task. While he had more dignity than to cram the solidified, frosted, stupidly decorated rings into his face, he did take overlarge mouthfuls in order to get the humiliation over with faster. 

Anger at being outmaneuvered he could have lived with. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that each confection was a rich, incredibly nostalgic reminder of his past. Mixmaster had recreated everything faithful to memories Prowl relived bite by bite, chewing quickly because otherwise he would slow down and savor.

He couldn’t block them out, from the smell to the taste to even the texture. Every bite sent a muted explosion over his chemical receptors as the taste hit him. He couldn’t help but shudder as his tongue rolled the textures around his mouth. Trapped bubbles of minerals and metals inside the treats formed crispy bits of crunch his teeth cracked. The gasses and minute pockets of liquid burst across his mouth. The smooth, silky frosting slid across the roof of his mouth like graphite. Chewing crackled and mixed the sensations from the baked energon alone, but breaking the surface crust on the frosting created a greater reaction. Sudden zings of hot, sparking burn made him swallow repeatedly, tongue flicking over his upper and lower lip as he panted through his mouth to sooth the spicy tang that tasted exactly how he remembered it.

All that even before the complicated intensity of heat-tempered energon reached his tanks. His systems had adjusted to war. They weren’t used to the layer upon layer of addictives enriching the treats, and his vision swam when the first swallow went down. His fuel tank didn’t roil. It warmed. A heated flush of well-being spread through his gut and wrapped around his back struts until his fuel system glowed, it felt so _good_. 

It could have been a guilty pleasure. Had the present come from any other admirers, under any other circumstances, he might have taken one of before sharing the rest of the box with the Autobots. However, he was excruciatingly aware of whom the donuts were from and how they’d been made. Being unable to avoid the manipulation as it happened tainted the treats. They tasted like memories of good times, but now there was a strong aftertaste of humiliation. Every time he’d taken a donut out of the box, his shoulders had hunched. He’d almost shoved the blasted things into his mouth to get it over with, and he’d hated the flood of taste and sensation. He’d hated how much he loved it.

Meanwhile, the Constructicons had stared. They’d assembled at the beginning of every project he’d assigned them to, and they’d stared. They’d watched him select a donut from the box, and their vents had draw in one deep breath as he’d eaten it. They’d held that breath until he’d finished, and it’d rushed out in a long sigh that sounded unnervingly erotic. The plush, static-prickling _feel_ of them had risen around him like a scent, like an obscene plume of steam from overheated bodies, and they’d reveled in his tasting. They’d reacted to his involuntary pleasure. Their charge had surged from merely watching the movement of his jaw, the smear of frosting on his lip, the tiny glimpse of his tongue. He’d felt them fantasizing.

Their minds danced on the borders of his own, constantly testing. They wanted him. They were trying to make him happy. Stalking and coercive as they were, they were also doing their level best to court him in an at least halfway acceptable manner. He didn’t find it acceptable at all, but they honestly thought this was a viable compromise. He had enough insight into their past courtships to know how much worse it could be. Blackmailing him into eating their handmade treats probably didn’t register as even vaguely wrong for Decepticons. 

All that in mind, he’d never been so happy to see an empty box.

It did leave the question of what happened next. Iacon wasn’t cleared for rebuilding yet, and a lot of work remained to be done. The Constructicons were debatably the best construction team available for the job, with the added advantage that they _wanted_ him to have any advantage he could find. If they led the rebuilding efforts, he’d be the first to know if they discovered anything. They wouldn’t object in the slightest if certain blueprints were tweaked on unofficial orders, the city built to his specifications. What he envisioned could become reality built by green-and-purple hands.

But the price for the cooperation of those hands had just risen out of reach. The Constructicons wanted the voyeuristic pleasure of watching him munch on donuts, but now they knew what he -- the Autobots, the Neutrals, even the other Decepticons -- needed. What he wanted, and how to twist him about to pay their price. He knew what kind of mechs they were. They’d use this for extortion, and the only other things he had to bargain with….

No. They wanted another merge into Devastator. He knew that, but he wouldn’t pay that price. If they outright tried to force him into combining by refusing to rebuild Iacon, he could slam on his brakes as well. The Constructicons had to realize that the bond went two ways. They’d find out how well the gestalt bond dealt with an entire city and a metrotitan between Prowl and themselves for a week or two, and then maybe they’d be ready to negotiate. 

They knew he’d hit back hard if they backed him into a corner. They also knew that there were other acts they could wheedle him into agreeing to. Less professionally risky acts but more personally disgusting. Compromise was the name of the game.

He scowled at the empty donut box. It vexed him. No more easy outs. 

…or was there?

The beginnings of a plan streamed out of his battle processor.

It didn’t have much time to work before the Constructicons approached in a noisy pack, laughing and jostling each other. His plating shuddered at the phantom memory of touch, but he pushed aside the feeling of hands on him and plugs sliding into snug sockets. Ugh. Combiner teams and their unnatural touchiness. Granted, they were built to fit together, but -- “Do **not** touch me.”

Grabby fraggers, all of them.

“Aww, come on,” Long Haul said, crowding him. It would have felt aggressive except friendliness and a starving hunger poured off him. Prowl still bristled and pushed him away, ready to lash out, and the Constructicon’s hands went up before he had to break any more knuckle joints. “Hey, okay! Okay.”

Bonecrusher got in a good one before Prowl could defend his backside, but the demolitionist didn’t go for the obvious grope. Instead, hands slid down the center of the Autobot’s back, thumbs dragging down the backstruts and fingers digging into his sides. Such a little groundframe, built for speed instead of strength. His hands could almost span Prowl’s waist. He could lift the mech, no problem. Devastator never could have worked if Prowl had replaced anything but his head, what with the Constructicons’ comparative frame strengths.

“Hello to you, too -- **ow!** ” Both hands left that delectable waist to cover the fresh dents left in his helm from a quick uppercut. “Yeah, deserved it, I know.”

Bonecrusher took the hit in good humor, but Prowl revved his engine and ducked out of the group before they could close in around him. They liked to do that. Surrounding him made them feel powerful, protective, almost whole. What made it better was how he’d order them around from inside the huddle. It was like being his arms and legs without a full combine.

He put his back to a crumpled wall and threw the box at their feet. “They are out. No more.” He jerked his chin at the clear lid, where a thick lump of lavender frosting had been left by a donut bumping into it. “Unless your absurd deal includes consuming that as part of the,” his lip curled, “show.”

Hook knelt to open the box, more thoughtful than his disappointed teammates. He ran his finger through the leftover frosting and huffed a laugh. “It’d be nice. I’d certainly want to…see…oh…” He stared upward, shocked. Someone made a strangled sound that wanted to be an incredulous question but failed on actual word use. 

Prowl twisted the wrist in his hand and regarded the frosting on the tip of one green finger. His face held no expression whatsoever. “Very well.”

Vents stuttered a gasp.

Soft and warm. Hook took his visor offline and concentrated on just that, only that, transmitting the raw sensor data. The broadcast sent Scavenger wobbling. The fine mechanisms of Prowl’s tongue slid over sensors that hadn’t been prepared for touch, much less a touch backed by a hot mouth closing slowly around Hook’s finger. Prowl deliberately closed his vents and redirected the air in a long, slow exhale through his mouth. 

Hook’s hands were fine-tuned instruments of surgery. His vocalizer fizzled as feedback sluiced through his sensor network. His fingers shook in tiny spasms of charge pinging back and forth in surface transfers from sensors to chemical receptors, receptors to sensors, plating to plating. Bonecrusher’s knees buckled. Paralyzed by the strength of Hook’s transmission, the Constructicons sagged against each other and helplessly absorbed the electric taste, the slick feel, even the calm, vented breath that went on and on. Oh, Primus. They wanted this Autobot. He seared their minds by closing himself off, but then he played their bodies, and oh. Oh.

Prowl listened to their ventilation systems kick into overdrive. Fans whirred to life, and he pressed Hook’s fingertip to the roof of his mouth, tongue molding around it. A simmering burn writhed along the borders of his mind: fantasies, daydreams, and a stark, unornamented lust. Hook bowed his head and moaned, low and desperate, as the other four Constructicons gaped. Prowl felt their bodies respond to the boil of arousal turning Hook’s thoughts to a melted pool. They were imagining what else Prowl could do, what else he _might_ do. 

He sucked gently, meeting their gazes one at a time, and they groaned in rough chorus. Prowl rubbed his tongue up to the fingertip, parting his lips to scrape his teeth over the second knuckle before giving a dainty lick up the length. The flat of his tongue caught the last of the frosting, but his face twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. It was totally unnecessary for him to close his mouth so his lips slid agonizingly slow off of Hook’s now-clean finger.

**[* * * * *]**   
  
_by Shibara, because she’s awesome like that._   
**[* * * * *]**

Totally unnecessary showmanship. Too far -- or rather, not quite far enough. Hook’s vocalizer whined a high-pitched sound of need as charge surged to the edge and balanced there, hanging.

And Prowl dropped his hand. “Get back to work,” the Autobot said, taking a step back. He drew himself up, cold as ever.

Five bleary expressions looked back at him. Comprehension dawned gradually.

“You,” Hook managed between great gulping vents that did little to cool his overheated systems, “are so incredibly hot. You’re using us. You’re using this,” he waved his cleaned finger, still shaking, “to use us.” The look on his face fought between awe and baffled rage.

“You’re **manipulating** us,” Mixmaster said.

“He’s so cool,” one Constructicon whispered to another.

“Don’t I know it,” the other one whispered back.

“I can make more frosting,” Mixmaster volunteered, and the team looked positively dazzled by the possibilities.

Prowl gave them an impassive glare, already calculating how hard he could push, how much he could get from them. “The bargain may need to be revised if you want a repeat.”

If anything, the lovestruck look deepened.

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to rape. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Nothing new here, just cleaning up the fic a bit. Prompt: Constructicons - “compliments”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Six**

**[* * * * *]**

He ordered them to submit reports as a method of keeping them further away.

They were close, always so close, and Prowl wanted to keep them at a distance. Away from him in general, but physically and as much as possible. Things had gotten weirdly intimate since the Frosting Compromise, emotions seeping under his guard as the Constructicons pressed in on him. They knew his vulnerable points. They knew how to manipulate him. Instead of a straightforward assault, they were gently twisting their intel into a courtship, and they always stayed so close.

So he sent them away. He put as much space as duty allowed between them, and he ordered them to submit reports on their daily activities. 

He demanded, and they provided.

They provided scrap. The first set of ‘reports’ didn’t deserve the title. Each document was a slovenly assemblage of half-completed sentences and cryptic references stuck in as hamfisted attempts to bait him into inquiring for more information. Hook’s surgery schedule listed his coworker as _’that one guy’_ and his patient as _’probably alive when they brought him in.’_ Scavenger’s report ever-so-enthusiastically stated, _’I found a thing!’_ The other Constructicons’ reports were even less helpful, and in the case of Long Haul’s, wildly inaccurate. There was no way in the Pit he’d hauled _’every lazy aft this side of the planet’_ from one end of Iacon to the other.

Prowl narrowed his optics at the transmission -- the timestamp confirmed it’d been sent late, of course -- and scheduled himself across the city for the rest of the week. Then he highlighted every grammatical error, vague point, and missing time frame in each report, attached a short, impersonal note about how disappointing he found their failure to complete simple tasks, and sent the reports back. 

The second day’s might have annoyed someone who cared. Prowl stood in the middle of the street he’d been in when the reports transmitted -- late again -- and vented in. In and out, long calming cycles. The blasted gestalt bond buzzed at the edge of awareness, mischievous and faintly hopeful, but he put a brutal choke-hold on his frustration. Forcibly calm, he annotated the reports for return and went on with his work. He refused to care. 

They wanted him to care. They wanted him to pay attention to them, and he wouldn’t. Losing his temper meant they were getting to him. It was reaction, even if he didn’t yell at them directly. They’d take indirect anger if that’s all he’d give them.

It hurt to pinch the gestalt bond closed, but he cinched it shut. The back of his spark ached in a dull, building throb. He ignored it. It wasn’t as though his processors didn’t already ache at the end of every day. Between Starscream’s so-called leadership, Optimus Prime’s return, and Megatron’s trial, his life was slightly difficult at the moment. This just added more stress to the pile. 

The pain was worse for those who invested more in the bond, he was certain. He neither cared nor wanted to care about the comfort and interest of the worst group of cruel, sadistic murders this side of the planet.

The third day, he shunted the transmission aside to look at later. At the end of the shift, he steeled himself for disappointment and was pleasantly surprised to find a full report mixed in among the other four pieces of slag. Long Haul, in apparent attempt at sniping back at him for the corrections, had written up the exact measurements of every single cargo he’d hauled that day. Pick-up times and deliveries were all included down, along with loading and receiving locations. The names of shippers and receivers were noted in meticulous detail, and Long Haul had sent their signatures in a separate file. He’d even accounted for shift beginning, breaktimes, and shift end.

Prowl read through the report twice, nodded, and sent back a curt, “Acceptable.” After some thought on encouraging good habits versus snark, he reluctantly added, “Your handwriting has improved.”

He meant it as a backhanded insult to point out how sloppy the mech’s writing had been up until this point, but he wasn’t sure the insult came through. The fourth day’s reports still transmitted late, but Long Haul’s was written in what was obviously the Constructicon’s best penmanship. Everything was handwritten this time, even the schedule. 

That hardly seemed efficient, but since the relevant information had been included? No reason to complain. In fact, Prowl was grudgingly impressed by the amount of cargo hauled. He could respect hard work.

“Your shipping rate is above average,” he noted. He didn’t like favoring soldiers, but acknowledgement of a job well done harmed no one. He shuffled the report responses into his queue to be transmitted at the start of the next shift and didn’t think about it again.

A warm burst of excitement came from the other end of the gestalt bond late that night, however. It fluttered around the periphery of his mind. In recharge, it became gluey memory fluxes full of voices talking. He couldn’t quite understand what they were saying, and he frowned his way online in the morning, inexplicably happy and therefore suspicious of his own good mood.

He didn’t know what to think about the next set of reports the Constructicons sent him. They were late, but they were, well, written correctly. In Long Haul’s case, hand-written. While not every minute was accounted for, the reports painted a detailed picture of the unit’s day. Prowl read the reports one by one, comparing times to map out where each Constructicon had been, what they’d been doing, with whom, and when. The reports accounted for their activities, letting him easily cross-check with more reliable reports. 

He hadn’t anticipated reports could provide this much information! Now he had an accurate picture of their day -- as well as an offhanded peripheral awareness of what others had been doing nearby, something Mixmaster seemed to have been aware of. His report included notes on the mechs he’d been working with. Prowl pored over those notes, updating his files.

Grimly satisfied, he sent, “Your ability to perform standard tasks has shown vast improvement. Continue this trend.”

He paid attention, this time. He could have easily ignored the flurry of warmth on the other end of the nearly-closed bond, but he chose to study the excitement. It spangled at the edges of his spark. It fluttered around his mind in a cloud of hazy, pleased confusion. The Constructicons felt something that they didn’t quite know how to deal with. Why? All Prowl had done was acknowledge their work.

…ah. That was it, wasn’t it? Decepticons didn’t do acknowledgement. Positive acknowledgement, that was. They did negative acknowledgement all the time. 

_“About time you finished that.”_

_“What, that’s the best you can do?”_

_“Congrats, a dead mech could have done that faster.”_

Prowl had done enough of that in his own time, especially while trying to get the Constructicons to do what he wanted. The tentative balance they were still sorting out made him cautious about offering anything that might encourage them. Recognition phrased in positive terms might be taken to mean he returned their affection, or at least accepted it. It would build up goodwill instead of tear it down. Positive feedback encouraged cooperation via a closer working relationship, while abrasive feedback spurred negative connotations side-by-side with the work. Dismissive sneering, snapped commands, and icy silence got his point across better.

He’d snapped the whip, and the Constructicons had responded about as well as anyone would expect a bunch of Decepticons working under an Autobot to. 

Prowl hadn’t wanted to encourage them in any way, but he hadn’t seen this reaction coming. Real words of acknowledgement had the Constructicons a-twitter, throwing themselves into their assigned tasks and doing extra in hopes of earning more. Actual praise from the right mech would probably floor them. 

“Well done,” as said by Prowl could have immediate consequences, if the glittering threads of pleasure wrapping around his spark meant anything.

Standing in the dark, the tactician’s smile flashed white and narrow. He’d been afraid praise would undercut his authority, but it appeared the opposite was true. This was a method of control handed to him on a silver platter, and this one could be implemented from a distance. Perfect.

The Constructicons had no idea why the other side of the gestalt bond suddenly felt so smug.

**[* * * * *]**


	7. Pt. 7

**Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to rape. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Nothing new here, just cleaning up the fic a bit. Prompt: Prowl/Constructicons - “cliche”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Seven**

**[* * * * *]**

The only way this could be more cliché was if they’d had one blanket during a blizzard.

He’d have been preferred that. Prowl could withstand freezing temperatures on his own and wouldn’t have minded leaving the Constructicon to die. Unfortunately, he could not withstand several tons of collapsed building the same way.

It had come down on top of him. The ground had shaken, and the air itself had vibrated as a rolling roar almost too low to hear had preceded tons of crumbling metal structure heading right for him. The angle had been all wrong, and he hadn’t taken more than two steps before realizing he couldn’t outrun it. The workers had shouted, and he’d braced himself, furious at the futility but despairing because there were no options, he was out of options, the building was coming _down_ \--

And the gestalt bond had lit up in panic and a fierce sense of _focus_. A second later, the wreckage close enough the air rushing before it scoured his plating, a whirling impact knocked him sideways. Prowl had instinctively curled into a tight ball right as the world pounded down upon him.

Now…this. Trapped under wreckage, his body pressed to his savior’s, unable to escape. It was enough to make a mech wish for a blizzard.

Prowl wanted to squirm, but he’d already scanned their tiny pocket of open space. There was nowhere to squirm to. Moving would serve no purpose and possibly destabilize the precarious balance of the building girders holding the wreckage at bay. Besides which, the Constructicon crouched over him would enjoy it too much. Knowing that, Prowl could not allow himself to squirm.

Air vented hot against the back of his neck, and Prowl ruthlessly cut power to his hip actuators. He would. Not. _Squirm._

Long Haul’s helm vents blew down on him again in harsh, heavy, panting breaths as the rubble pressed into the Constructicon’s back. Gravity crushed them both into the ground, held back from smashing them flat by the intersection to two building spars directly across Long Haul’s shoulders. It had been a last second rescue made possible by a prediction only Bonecrusher could have made as he saw the slow, inevitable fall of the wreckage coming down on Prowl. The demolitionist had an intrinsic understanding of the intersection of construction and destruction. It’d been his focus Prowl had felt spike through the bond.

That intuition had saved his life. Long Haul’s reckless sprint to tackle him deserved equal credit. Prowl’s frame didn’t have the strength to hold up under the weight that had come down on them, but Long Haul’s did. Elbows locked, arms lined up under his shoulders like loadbearing supports for the building above them, Long Haul held the building on his back. The hands on either side of Prowl’s forearms were braced wide, unable to shift more than the fingers. The inside of his thighs pressed to the outside of Prowl’s, but Long Haul didn’t take advantage of their position. His legs didn’t move. They were locked solid, knees digging into the ground and feet bracing them in place.

Prowl sprawled on his front to make room for his back-mounted doors between them, arms ahead of himself and knees drawn up under him to allow for his prominent chest. The awkward position pressed Long Haul’s chest between his doors and all but glued their lower halves together. It was _not_ a comfortable position. An inordinate amount of foreign plating pressed to his own, and it felt horribly familiar in a way he’d been attempting to forget. Prowl’s dormant gestalt links pinged eager queries at him. 

He denied them. No, this wasn’t the prelude to a combine. This was a prelude to nothing, thank you very much. Long Haul crouched over him in this horribly intimate position because building girders lay flat across his back. That was the only reason. End of story.

It explained why Long Haul had turned their tiny shelter into a furnace, too. He billowed heat, but Prowl could feel mechanisms straining within the Constructicon’s chassis. The whirring fans were obviously from hard labor. A perfectly logical explanation, and one that Prowl chose to believe. Long Haul stoically took the weight bearing down on them, arms faintly shaking on either side of the Autobot. Prowl breathed deep and waited, forcing himself to stay patient.

Long Haul ducked his head further as the wreckage shifted, and Prowl grimaced as the slight motion shielded his own helm from a patter of sharp rubble. “Thank you,” he bit out, because he _was_ grateful, and he _understood_ that he’d been saved, but _ugh_.

“No problem.”

The fitful static from their commlines broke into words as someone on the other side tried to reach them again. _*On—-r way! We’ll ha——dig y—-t, but hang tigh—*_

“Understood,” he said curtly into his comm. pick-up. It didn’t matter if his transmission got through. No one would abandon the rescue attempt, not with four worried Constructicons free to pester the dig team. Prowl knew they’d find him.

It unsettled him a little how reassuring he found that.

“What, they think we’re going to run away?” muttered against the back of his neck, and Prowl’s doors shuddered at the combination of a hot rush of air and angry words. Combat protocols bypassed new gestalt programming, spinning up ready to fight. Years of war had taught him what to expect from a large Decepticon close quarters. 

His reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Around the edges of his spark, in the nebulous area where his awareness once ended, five minds drew back. A sense of hesitation brushed across him as though they were passing his wariness around asking each other what they’d done. Realization dawned, and a rough-edged projection of peace swiftly followed. Long Haul’s engine accelerated from a stressed idle to a rumbling purr that vibrated down into Prowl. The gestalt program pinged him insistently, targeting his own cylinder cycles. It wanted him to sync with Long Haul.

It took him a minute to understand that the Constructicons were trying to soothe him. His doors tucked in close. No. Just…no. 

Long Haul tipped his head back to open up as much space as he could. “Don’t do that. I’m not going to hurt you. We’d never hurt you.”

Prowl didn’t believe that. He wouldn’t believe that of anyone, not ever again. “Be quiet,” he ordered.

The order got him a few minutes of silence. He seized it, sinking into his thoughts, but the Constructicons were up to something. He could feel it. As much as he’d wanted to, he couldn’t ignore the activity around his spark and in the corners of his mind where he couldn’t seem to chase them out. They communicated with each other in flickers of thought and feeling faster than he could speak through a commlink. He could only monitor their sudden, suspicious spate of activity. It didn’t bode well. He silently urged the rescuers to dig faster.

After twenty minutes, Long Haul drew in a deep vent of already hot air. It did nothing to cool either of them anymore. “Look, we’ve gotta talk. We want to join your — “

“Shut up.”

“No! You keep shutting us down when we try to talk this out with you — “

“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Will you just let us speak?! We have a say in this, you know! We’re stuck to your spark, too, so you gotta concede something to us — “

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Do not.”

“Do too!”

It was immature, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Says who, exactly? Megatron? Your leader, you might have noticed, is in the stockades.”

The rubble shifted ominously above them, and Long Haul’s reflexive twitch stopped cold. Prowl had already flinched low, pressing into the ground to get away from what might have been a reaction to a the Decepticon leader’s name or an attempt to strike him for the reminder. He couldn’t tell which. The gestalt bond didn’t feel malicious, but it never did. He hadn’t felt hostility even when the Constructicons had been fighting the Dinobots. Violence was the norm for the combiner team. They killed as easily as they did anything else. 

He had to remember that. Above all, he had to remember that even though the gestalt program wanted to accept the soothing, the physical contact, the murmurs on the edge of hearing -- despite everything in him that wanted to keep them close, he couldn’t trust them. They were everything their connection promised _at the same time_ they were everything he’d seen in their heads.

The minds around his own reached out, trying to catch his thoughts, puzzled and seeking his perspective. He pressed his lips into a thin line, braced himself for the pain, and squeezed the bond as tight as he could. 

Objections immediately hammered at the closed bond, hurt by his abrupt rejection of their comforting presences. They wanted to make him understand and understand him, but Prowl shut them out. He would always shut them out. They didn’t belong in his head anymore than he belonged in theirs. He was trapped here, but the threat of being crushed alive was just one more threat in a long line of life-threatening dangers. The body sheltering him from the latest threat was new, but a Constructicon shielding him was just a hard place opposite a rock. Another trap, disguised as a savior.

Long Haul gently nudged the back of his helm. “Prowl, please. Just listen.”

Blue optics glared at the ground in front of his face. Determination covered the fear he wouldn’t admit to. “Be. Quiet.”

“No. We’re going to talk about this now, while you can’t — urk!” Prowl gave another grinding squirm, deliberately working his hips. His aft scraped where it would devastate the most. Long Haul made a soft sound more telling than the way his arms shook. Determination melted into a desperate, persuasive tone. “D-don’t. Don’t do that. We need to talk. Just — can we talk?”

He flexed his doors back against the Constructicon’s chest, sliding them down as far as the hinges allowed. Long Haul swallowed another tiny noise as doors sleeked down against his midriff, but Prowl’s hips rolled up, and the Constructicon’s vocalizer bleated a distressed blurt of static. Prowl managed to pull one arm back under himself when the mech above him somehow found the strength to scrunch upward as if burnt by the extra contact. That moved his hand into position to rub the fingers over a panel that covered wires leading to his spark chamber, and Prowl gave it a suggestive tap. 

Long Haul’s fans caught. He’d heard that. 

“Fine,” Prowl said, level and calm. “Let’s talk.”

“Don’t do that.” The Constructicon’s voice was nowhere near level.

“You wanted to talk. I’m listening. Unless you’d like me to stop?” The panel popped open. It sounded far too loud in the small space.

Long Haul’s arms jerked, one hand trying to move, but he couldn’t. The weight above them was too great. He was pinned as he was with no relief in sight and his elusive, aloof sixth team member stroking his own wires under him. Prowl could feel the way his spark wailed to the others for help, and their confusion transmitted in return. None of them knew what to do.

“That’s not fair,” whined into the back of his neck.

“Those are my terms,” he said. His fingertips probed deep, reaching for a particularly sensitive relay cluster. He arched as much as he could when they found it, and he didn’t even try to muffle his breathy sound of pleasure. Electricity raced, charge building dense enough to taste, and his spark thrummed into the gestalt connection. “Talk.”

Long Haul slumped as much as he could. “…stop. I won’t — you win.”

Prowl hummed acknowledgement and let his hand fall out of his chest, palming the panel shut. The warm flush of arousal would cool soon enough. The silence was worth being stuck in an even more awkward position. 

“You’re not even being subtle about manipulating us anymore,” Long Haul complained.

“I fail to see how being upfront in dealing with your unit can be twisted into a complaint.” He might have put a little too much smugness into his voice, but what were they going to do? They wanted him, and they wanted to make him want them. He had no compunction against using that.

Silence fell, broken only by the rush of fans and Long Haul’s uncomfortable wriggling as aroused systems cooled slowly. Prowl stayed perfectly still. The rescue team would reach them before he moved again.

He did harbor a slight worry that the Constructicons would go behind his back after this, but really. What could they do?

**[* * * * *]**


	8. Pt. 8

**Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to rape. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Nothing new here, just cleaning up the fic a bit. Prompt: Prowl - “bride price”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Eight**

**[* * * * *]**

The Constructicons f+ound Optimus Prime at what had once been Iacon’s center. They didn’t interrupt the meeting, but the post-meeting political dancing about did clear out fast. Five hulking construction mechs lurking at the edges of the crowd tended to hurry things along. They occupied themselves making faces at Starscream.

Prowl tensed further and further until he practically vibrated with rage and embarrassment. His hissed commands to go away were blithely ignored, and for once, they blocked _him_ from the gestalt bond. They weren’t there for him, believe it or not. When he stalked away from the group, indignantly stiff, the Constructicons watched him go with wistful expressions but didn’t follow. That would alarm him eventually, but only once he finally noticed his shadows were missing. They estimated it’d be a while since he was six kinds of flouted anger right now. The way he was intentionally ignoring their presence, he wouldn’t figure out they weren’t following him for at least fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes they intended to use. “You want to what?” Optimus Prime asked, bemused.

“Purchase him,” Hook said firmly. The others nodded behind him, just as resolute. They’d clearly made up their minds on this issue. “You’re his leader, right? Superior officer, anyway. We’re not asking for ownership,” he assured the Autobot commander, “but we want to buy his commission. You have the authority to officially transfer him into our unit.”

The Prime blinked slowly. He did it again, wondering if he’d taken a hit to the head. 

The Constructicons held out their offer on eager hands, presenting it to him. “We have blueprints for rebuilding the city, a statement of neutrality -- “

“We’re not going to be Autobots.”

“ -- yeah, we can’t do that. But we can be neutrals, and we’ll accept him as our commander. We want to follow him, Prime, we do.”

“Work contracts,” Bonecrusher spread the datapads out, showing the drafts, “of varying lengths and project allowances. No monetary compensation or bartering required. All we want is -- “

“ **Him** ,” the whole group said as one. Their voices held yearning dark with frustration, need, and a bright, wanting possessiveness Decepticons likely mistook for love.

Optimus Prime just stared at them, speechless and a little tempted.

**[* * * * *]**


	9. Pt. 9

**Title:** Foreman  
 **Warning:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to rape. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
 **Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons   
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Kinkmeme prompt and Shibara. She keeps drawing things. Nothing new here, just cleaning up the fic a bit. Prompt: Constructicons - “IKEA”

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Nine**

**[* * * * *]**

For the most part, they behaved.

Prowl didn’t want them along, but they couldn’t be left behind, either. What made him suspicious was their automatic inclusion in the Earth mission. It had been delicate enough work getting Optimus Prime to accept Prowl himself for the mission, yet the Prime had added the Constructicons without even consulting him? There was something not quite right about that. He’d had an argument ready and everything.

The Constructicons, of course, never doubted they were included. He was one of them, now. They went where he went. They’d shown up, ready to board and confident that they were on the roster, and he hadn’t quite been able to put his finger on why that alarmed him.

Apart from the obvious, that was. He had to lock his door and stand in front of it to keep them from moving right in.

“But we’re your unit,” Scavenger protested. “Prime said so!”

That by itself made him twitch. “Yes. I’ve been informed that I’ve been assigned command of your unit.” He understood Optimus Prime’s reasoning, but there was, again, something just slightly _off_ about the whole thing. The Prime was too easily swayed by pretty words and simpering, in his opinion. Prowl would have demanded concessions of the glitches if it had been up to him, but the decision had been taken out of his hands. He’d been assigned to ride herd on the Constructicons, and since it served his purposes, he would do his duty.

But letting them room with him wasn’t listed anywhere as a duty _he_ was aware of. Five expectant mechs gave him the brightest of looks, waiting with optical filaments positively glowing. It took effort not to retreat behind his closed door to get away from that look. 

“Y’know, we’re your unit,” Bonecrusher said.

“I’m aware of that.” Icicles dripped off his voice. He glowered at Bonecrusher’s straying hand. 

Hook sidled a step closer while Prowl was distracted. “You could also say you’re in **our** unit,” the surgeon said, faux casual.

“You’ll notice,” Prowl growled, “that I didn’t. The reason being that I am not in your unit. **You** are **mine**. **I** am not **yours**.”

The group stared at him, and he realized he’d said exactly the wrong thing. They shuddered in eerie unison, starting with Hook on the far side and shivering around through to Bonecrusher. “I can live with that,” Long Haul said in a strangled voice.

“Can you…say that again?” Bonecrusher asked hopefully. The demolitionist snatched his hands back behind his back. Breathing hard, he rocked back and forth on his heels, vents running as if he’d come straight from combat. “I want a clear recording.”

“Got it,” Hook said, low enough to be a whisper but too intense for that. “You don’t belong to us. We belong to you.” The Constructicons shuddered again. 

A sweet pressure vibrated around the edges of Prowl’s spark in a restless motion that kept trying to close in on him. He opened his mouth to deny Hook’s words -- it sounded wrong, something about it sounded entirely and awfully _wrong_ despite it technically being true -- and changed his mind. Best not to engage in any form of debate over this issue. They were too invested in his answer.

So he stuck with the facts. “You are mine in an official capacity, nothing more. As subordinates on a probationary trial period while avenues for separating me from the combiner without undue harm to you are explored.” The gestalt bond hadn’t burrowed so deep into his spark that it would cripple him. Not yet, and he wanted it gone before time ate it deeper. Unfortunately for time constraints, the medics had informed him the lack of harm to the Constructicons was a necessity. He’d argued neutralizing the worst group of crazed, cruel killers among the Decepticons trumped any ethical issues, but the medics were taking their _Do No Harm_ oath to unreasonable lengths since the war ended.

They weren’t the only ones. Optimus Prime had informed him that the war was over for those Decepticons who had not left after Megatron’s desertion. Prowl had nearly yelled at the Prime for his stupidity. Had losing the Matrix made the mech naively trusting of the whole universe? Prowl knew better! The Constructicons could never be trusted, could never be allowed close. Trusting them to do anything but scrap outsiders to their cabal was blatant idiocy. The delicate fingers sliding silk and satin over his spark were lies. 

He’d seen their minds. They were corrupt and would betray anyone who dared trust them.

But not him. No, not him. He had made sure of it. They would not survive betraying him. He’d taken the necessary precautions to make betraying _him_ a lethal action, and no one would ever suspect what he’d done afterward. 

The Constructicons stared at him, stripping his armor from his spark and stroking over his mind with their optics. The cold, narrow focus of him burned amidst the admiration fizzing in effervescent spurts from them. “Yeah. Right, boss. Whatever you say.”

Somehow, their absent-minded acceptance failed to comfort him. The niggling feeling that he was _missing_ something just wouldn’t leave him be.

“We brought you something for your room,” Scavenger piped up after a long period of staring at him. “Can we at least set it up?”

Fragging Pit. “What is it?” he asked warily.

“A desk. We made it to your specs.”

That…seemed fairly harmless, actually. They liked making and giving him things, he’d noticed, and he wasn’t above exploiting them for labor. “Very well.” He stepped aside, reluctant but resigned as five too-large Decepticons crowded past him in a rush. Ugh. 

He stood in the door to supervise, and they did behave. Mostly. He saw how their optics lingered on the berth, assessing and measuring and probably planning filthy things he wanted no part of. He refused to acknowledge that, and they moved on to actual work. They unpacked the desk parts and clustered in a humming, happy group as they set it up. They sincerely enjoyed building things as a team. There was nothing that stood out about that as wrong, but…

It was _how_ they were building that weirded him out. They kept putting certain parts together and taking them apart again and again: screws winding into sleeves in long, slow, deliberate twists of thumb and forefinger, and sheets of metal sliding in and out of grooves. The sleek scrape of polished surfaces snugging home repeated in a heavy rhythm that tugged at the borders of conscious thought. Prowl frowned at the inefficiency initially, then began shifting on his feet as he grew increasingly uncomfortable with the repeated steps.

Combine. Take apart. Slowly, suggestively build all the various parts back into one. Perfectly fitted parts clicked against each other were then dissembled for no discernible reason. 

The Constructicons peered at him from the corners of their optics and visors the whole while, hungry and hovering at the back of his mind. They were behaving, but. But. 

There was just _something_ bothering him about all of this.

Prowl couldn’t quite see what had him on edge.

**[* * * * *]**


	10. Pt. 10

**Title:** Foreman  
**Warning:** Coercion via forcible gestalt bonding and power dynamics. Manipulation. Vague references to rape. Donuts. Spoilers for RiD, MTMTE, and Dark Cybertron. If you can't take it, don't read it.  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Continuity:** IDW, Robots in Disguise  
**Characters:** Prowl, Constructicons  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** I actually pulled this out of Candy from Strangers. It was written for this fic, but at the time I didn’t like it as an ending point. Now I do. Prompt: _“When your opponent **slips up** , you press the advantage as **hard** as it can go, and **far** as it can go. And when you’re done…you leave them **devastated**.”_ \- Prowl, RiD #29

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Ten**

**[* * * * *]**

To their credit, they didn’t flinch.

The Constructicons leapt after him in a group, moving as one unit, and that unit fully trusted him. They were ready to follow wherever he led them. As they fell, they transformed to combine with him without hesitation. They trusted what they’d seen in his mind, no matter that he didn’t trust them back.

He would use them despite that lack of trust. “When your opponent **slips up** ,” he said, and the words stabbed into the raw space between them, “you press the advantage as **hard** as it can go, and **far** as it can go. And when you’re done…you leave them **devastated**.” What he said had a double meaning. Their systems jolted in unpleasant recollection because even now -- _even now_ \-- he turned his words into a weapon.

His mind was his greatest weapon, the part of that completed them. Their bodies were their weapon. It came up short against him. They had hurt him physically, maimed and forced him to become one of them, then done even worse. Even while combining into one being, minds and bodies becoming Devastator in order to fight Galvatron, his acid lash of disapproval burnt through them, and he _hurt_ them with it.

Scavenger’s mouth had been scraped to bare metal. His awareness of it sank under the merge, but the component named Scavenger didn’t attempt to hide his shame from Prowl when the gestalt links clicked home. Scavenger’s lips were freshly painted, the scuffs around his wrists polished away to barely noticeable marks, but his mouth still hurt. His spark cringed back from the merge for a split second, afraid of feeling hatred in the link, but the Constructicons had fought in the war a long time. Battle was place for personal drama. If they survived, the Constructicons would separate and deal with the taste of ashes and solder left in Scavenger’s mouth, the shame filling his spark.

They’d deal with the shared memory of Prowl backed into the corner, optics wild and one hand still holding one leg of the desk they’d built him. It was Scavenger’s memory, one he wished he could hide but knew he couldn’t. The Constructicons winced from it. They didn’t want to share this memory, but they had to. That was the price of merging into one. 

Scavenger couldn’t remember the events leading up to the memory. He’d obviously cornered their Autobot somehow. 

Prowl remembered. Oh, did he remember. He flung the memory at them hard enough to sting, feeding his indignant fear into their heads and hammering it into their sparks. He forced them to feel his helplessness and rage as a larger, stronger opponent backed him into the corner of his own quarters. His own quarters! What should have been a sanctuary had become a trap. 

What should have been a teammate, a part of himself, had become a threat.

It sliced into the Constructicons deep enough to bleed innermost energon, but Prowl didn’t even acknowledge it: the fragile shell of trust they’d managed to build in their sixth had shattered. They’d managed to coax him along, courting and persuading and promising..

It _hurt_ to feel him now. Bitter vindication poured through Prowl, and his broken edges stabbed their sparks like weapons as they lived his perspective. 

He’d cracked the desk over Scavenger’s head. Scavenger, whose mouth still hurt, whose wrist joints ached from the hard twist of improvised cuffs. Scavenger, who couldn’t remember what he’d done to scare their Autobot. He remembered the look in Prowl’s optics as black-and-white doors went back. The smaller mech had taken the desk leg in both hands, wound up, and _slammed_ it into the side of his helm. 

Scavenger remembered that. It’d been a good hit. He didn’t remember why Prowl had knocked him out, but he remembered the feisty mech taking him out. Up until Prowl supplied the other half of the memory, Scavenger had admired the Prowl in his memories. There weren’t many mechs able to overpower a Constructicon using nothing but a desk and pure rage.

Shame drowned that admiration. He had Prowl’s memories to fill in the gap now. What he did remember was bad enough, in that context.

“You were drunk,” murmured through his spark during the endless seconds of falling and merging into one. The other Constructicons knew each other so well.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You never mean to when you’re drunk.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Too late for that,” one of the others sighed. 

Regret tore through them, but Prowl blocked their apologies out. He focused hard, sharp and narrow. It choked their access to him into a cold corridor lined by nothing but the mission. 

“Too late,” they agreed.

Too late to take back the threat of going too hard and too fast, something Decepticons understood as normal but Autobots just didn’t get. Scavenger had put the pressure on, because why not? Why not take a grab at the hot little groundframe etched into their gestalt program files? He was needed, wanted, essential and innovative, a solution to a problem that’d crippled them for too long, and he was _right there_. Why not take what was already theirs? 

Prowl had been there, and availability was half the reason. Scavenger had pushed him over and followed him down, because that’s what Decepticons did. Why not? He’d been there, Scavenger had been there, and there hadn’t been a reason not to. They were one. A hand couldn’t take advantage of the other hand. They were one person, in the end, and it was just a handshake.

But that was the reasoning of a combiner team. Prowl had been an individual for too long, and not one of them for long enough. The Constructicons knew they weren’t to take what they wanted, not this time, not without gradually working up to the point where he thought it was his idea, they were his to take, it was his choice to give. Their bodies were their main weapon, not their minds, but they could plan that much out.

Engex had erased their plan from Scavenger’s mind. 

“Why not?” Prowl had asked after the makeshift cuffs cut into his attacker’s wrists. This was Prowl’s memory, because Scavenger didn’t remember this part. Scavenger had a trick memory when he drank, and usually the other Constructicons would have had him under control, but he’d gotten away. They’d been busy, and he’d wanted what was dangled just out of reach. He’d gotten away, gone too far, and discovered that one fendered Constructicon couldn’t take on Prowl. 

“Why **not**?” Prowl asked again, and they still didn’t get it. “You have to provide reasons arguing against taking advantage of someone smaller and weaker than you?” In the memory, Prowl had stepped back as his face twisted in utter disgust. “I should be surprised. I’m not.”

The cuffs had twisted tight enough to cut into Scavenger’s wrist joints. It’d made Prowl feel safer. The memory had a tiny hint of satisfaction from knowing Scavenger was in pain from the cuffs and the blow to the head, and the Constructicons cautiously tested that train of thought. Hope tickled through the back of the merge. They could use sadism. If he wanted to tie them up, beat them, savage them -- they’d let him. It wasn’t a bad price to pay. They’d allow him to use them to his satisfaction if it would earn them forgiveness for what Scavenger had almost done.

Hope died. The hint of satisfaction had been from defending himself, not for actually causing Scavenger harm. 

By then, the other Constructicons had felt their teammate’s pain and Prowl’s boiling anger. A tentative knock had come from the door, and Prowl had whirled around to face it, hands clenched into shaking fists when he realized who was on the other side. A searing snap of _rage_ had whipped through their united sparks. Even now, it hurt. Falling, combining, becoming one, they cried out inside of Devastator for the sheer cutting hatred from their sixth self.

He hated them. He hated what Scavenger had tried to do. He hated their warped logic and the absent morals that had led to Scavenger’s confused look as the Constructicon knelt on the floor, wrists bound. He and the Constructicons were not compatible. They desired him and he could use them, but they were not redeemable. It took a desk to the helm just to get through to the drunken sot who’d invaded his office that throwing him on the floor and slobbering on his neck was repulsive. Shouting refusals hadn’t been enough. Kicking and yelling hadn’t been enough. Screaming through the gestalt connection hadn’t been enough.

Consent just did not process in the Constructicons’ stunted ethical system.

This was what Scavenger didn’t remember. This was what Prowl had done in response to their incomprehension.

He’d kissed the Constructicon: a full, deep kiss of teeth and tongue, hard enough to chip paint and dent metal. He’d braced his hands on either side of Scavenger’s face, tipped it back, and gave it his all. The memory of it flooded the gestalt bond, pushing its way into all their minds, and the Constructicons gasped under the assault. Scavenger had moaned as he’d surrendered, but he didn’t remember it. This was Prowl’s memory. 

The memory of what they might have had, what could have been theirs, belonged to Prowl and Prowl only. What he said aloud to Optimus Prime as they combined sliced the Constructicons, because they understood how it was meant for them, too. They’d slipped up, and Prowl had grabbed the advantage. He’d pressed it as hard and far as he could, tongue in Scavenger’s mouth, and now he pressed it further. The bond resonated with that kiss, and the Constructicons whimpered under the memory of his mouth.

Because it was _his_ memory. When he was done, when Devastator uncoupled back into his separate components, the Constructicons would be left with nothing but the knowledge that they couldn’t ever have him. The kiss, and his memory of it, was beyond their grasp. Even as his nose bled from the strain of separation, he kept it -- and himself -- out of their reach.

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
